


fall.

by absolut_svensk



Series: from death to birth. [3]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 20:29:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1164159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/absolut_svensk/pseuds/absolut_svensk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he can have nothing else, he wants that last shred of dignity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fall.

**Author's Note:**

> I think at some point, every writer has a work that completely deviates from what their original intention for it was, and I believe that I have reached that point with 'From Death to Birth' with this part in particular. It's just so completely different from what I'd intended--and yet somehow, I'm not completely upset with it, either. Sometimes it's better to just let the story write itself.
> 
> The companion music for this is Wintersun's "Time"; I strongly recommend listening to the "Live @ Sonic Pump Studios" version, as it's slightly different than the version on the CD and the raw vocals are absolutely perfect for this, I think.
> 
> Once again, there is one person out there who will understand all these subtle references. This is for you; I can't wait to break your heart with it.

_You want so much from me - I feel nothing but grief and despair_

_How can I make you feel again - All my dreams are just visions I can’t bear_

_You want something that I can’t give - I cannot keep living in this bitter dream_

_And I don’t care anymore_

_It feels like my life is ending_

_Oh, another year gone by._

**Saturday, October 2005.**

**8:40 P.M.**

**Raahe, Finland.**

Skwisgaar doesn’t feel almost thirty.

Well--maybe it’s better to say that he doesn’t _want_ to feel almost thirty, because thirty, at least to him, marks the transition from youth to middle-age. He might as well go ahead and wither up and die; good looks are fleeting, and soon the passing of time will steal his away from him, he’s sure of it. 

(He’s another year closer to being a bloated and swollen corpse rotting away six feet under, skin sloughing off in sheets, maggots gnawing away at porcelain skin. It’s disgusting, morbid, a slow, creeping death. Even as he exists and lives and breathes, he erodes.) 

They’ve got a show to play in several hours, and he’s already running late to soundcheck, but he cannot abide by _not_ checking for the umpteenth time before finally heading out. He leans in closer, squinting at the mirror hanging over his vanity, and his face falls when, among his cascading golden locks, he finds the first strand of grey.

(It’s begun. Angrily, he yanks it out.)

\---- 

Finland is cold--sometimes snowy, even--in the fall, but oddly enough, it reminds Skwisgaar of home--in a good way, which is something he never thought he’d think. And Raahe is quiet; the fact that he can appreciate a city with far fewer goings-on than Helsinki or Göteborg or Oslo or Los Angeles must mean that he’s really getting old. Old and tired. Even playing shows now takes so much out of him, not that his pride would allow him to admit it.

The venue is much smaller than what they’ve grown used to playing; Skwisgaar knows the fans who’re lucky enough to be in attendance paid an arm and a leg (perhaps even literally) to come. Nathan, he remembers, wasn’t thrilled about the idea of such a tiny, intimate show, and Skwisgaar played right along. 

(Secretly he is, though--he’s elated. More intimate shows mean--at least for them--shorter sets and no solo sets or theatrics or anything else that’s altogether too loud and too exhausting.) 

Toki’s standing out in the snow when Skwisgaar arrives at the venue; he’s jacketless and staring up at the grey sky, his tongue sticking out, a beer in hand. Upon closer inspection, Skwisgaar realizes he’s trying to catch a snowflake on his tongue. Age, it seems, hasn’t touched Toki at all, aside from making him more lovely in every sense of the word; just as Skwisgaar had predicted, he’s filled out beautifully, and at twenty-three, he’s as healthy and vivacious and full of life if they come. 

(If Toki knew he thought that, he’d laugh at him and tease him about lifting lines from a Disney movie. And Skwisgaar would laugh, too, and nod and shrug.

God, he’s getting sentimental in his old age.)

\--Luckily he grabs a wad of napkins out of the center console before he starts coughing up what feels like pieces of his lungs. He spits as discreetly as he can, not wanting Toki to see him out of the corner of his eye, to come rushing over and do that dumb dildo hugging thing he always wants to do when Skwisgaar has one of his fits. It’s ridiculous, and--much like a wounded animal--Skwisgaar would rather suffer in private than even in the company of his most trusted friend--not that he’d ever call Toki that to his face.

(The cough is getting more and more draining; he’s even managed to mostly quit cigarettes over it, instead slapping nicotine patches on his stomach--mostly due to Toki’s urging, in order to counter cravings. Still--his cough should’ve started getting better by now, though; instead, it’s worse and everything hurts--) 

Toki sees him, then, and promptly retracts his tongue, shuffling over (and slipping a bit on an icy patch of road--nice save, _dumbom_!) and tugging the door to Skwisgaar’s car open. He gives him a _look_ that never means anything good, hands on his hips. ‘You’re coughing again, aren’t you.’

‘Toki,’ Skwisgaar croaks, ignoring the Norwegian’s concern completely, ‘put on a fucking jacket.’

Toki yanks the door open further and bends over until he’s on Skwisgaar’s eye level, and though he reaches out as if meaning to grab his chin roughly, his touch is only ever gentle. Skwisgaar knows that, now, and he doesn’t flinch at the gesture. 

‘You’re hot.’

A snort. Skwisgaar smiles wryly. ‘I know.’

‘Cut it out, Skwis.’ Toki looks concerned--which is never good. He can mother-hen with the best of them when he gets into one of his Moods, and--judging by how his frown is deepening, how his lips are pursed in the most ridiculously _grandmotherly_ way--he’s fixing to lay into him mercilessly. ‘Have you been smoking?’

(A shake of his head.)

‘Sleeping?’

(Skwisgaar just glares at him with a look that seems to say, _Do I ever?_ )

‘Eating?’

A shrug. ‘Not really. I’m not hungry.’

‘You’re so thin. Christ, Skwisgaar. _Please_ take care of yourself.’

‘ _I am trying_ ,’ Skwisgaar replies with an air of quiet exasperation, gesturing towards the bottle of orange juice he’s got in the cup holder.

In spite of himself, Toki snorts with laughter, kicking the door to Skwisgaar’s Audi shut once he steps out of it and wrapping an arm around that skinny waist. Skwis is wearing the Ensiferum hoodie they got at the concert in Espoo last week; it’s several sizes too big for him (just how he likes it) and he looks adorable, red-nosed and cold and bundled up. If he were feeling up to par, Toki would undoubtedly tease him about it.

(But instead he can feel Skwisgaar’s ribs through the thick fabric; he knows Ray-Ban aviators are hiding tired, sunken eyes, and his face falls. He says nothing.) 

\----

The stage lights seem hotter than they ever have when Skwisgaar stands idly under them in between songs. He can feel Toki’s gaze on him, but he refuses to make eye contact, instead lazily watching Murderface fumble with the cables he kicked loose during _Murmaider_ , and wishing very much that he had somewhere soft to sit.

The drone of impatient chatter from the audience isn’t enough to drown out the sound of his coughing, despite his best efforts at subtlety; it even attracts Nathan’s attention. The hulking frontman turns to him, cracks open a beer, and grins, then speaks into the mic.

‘Check out our fucking guitarist, douchebags.’

(Skwisgaar really doesn’t want to be checked out mid-cough, but he knows all eyes are upon him anyways.)

‘He’s been hacking up a lung for like... months, now. It’s fucking brutal.’

Skwisgaar glares at Nathan and spits. It’s bloodier than usual this time; apparently even Nathan notices it, because his grin widens. 

‘Are you coughing blood?’

(The refusal to answer is tantamount to a ‘yes.’)

‘That’s so metal, dude.’

The audience cheers in agreement. Skwisgaar glowers. And he doesn’t have to look over at Toki to know Toki’s both upset and _furious_. The atmosphere onstage practically changes, at least to Skwisgaar; it’s like he can sense that telltale electricity that always seems to be in the air when Toki’s madder than hell.   

He doesn’t have much time to worry about it, though. Murderface’s crow of victory means he’s gotten his cable situation sorted. They immediately launch into _Dethharmonic_ , and at least for a few minutes, Skwisgaar can forget about everything and focus instead on the music. 

(It’s so, so hard to breathe when they’re done, but he still manages to high-five the others, smile prettily and pose for pictures and sign autographs. He’d rather be dead than dilapidated like this. Getting old is awful.) 

\----

Tonight is the first night where getting his dick sucked seems more like a chore than a treat.   

Skwisgaar shoots his load down the groupie slut’s throat without so much as even the softest moan of pleasure, and though she looks mildly offended when he’s in such a rush to pull his pants back up and make a hasty exist, he doesn’t care. There are a million more girls where she came from, and the only person he genuinely wants to see isn’t even in the building any more. By the time he makes it out the front door, brusquely shoving paparazzi aside and bolting for the safety of his car, he can’t even remember her face.

Toki never goes to parties; he’s already sitting on the foot of the bed when Skwisgaar gets back to the hotel looking completely worn, and he practically jumps up in surprise when he hears the door shut quietly.  

The gears are clearly turning in his head, and he puts two and two together quickly. His brow furrows deeply. ‘That bad, huh.’

‘I really don’t want to talk about it.’ Skwisgaar slumps over onto the bed facedown, not so much as bothering to take his boots off, instead leaving his awkward, gangly legs dangling off the side. If Toki weren’t so worried, he’d laugh and tease him, but instead he just settles quietly at his side, cross-legged and frowning, one broad hand settled soothingly in damp and sweaty golden locks. 

‘You need to see a doctor,’ Toki says, trying his best to be stern. But Toki could never be stern even if he tried; he’s got two settings, adorable and fucking terrifying, and absolutely nothing in between. ‘I keep waking up sweaty at night and I know it’s not me, because you’re always soaked.’

‘Means I was dreaming about you,’ Skwisgaar replies softly, trying his best to lighten the mood. It almost works--almost. He sees a flicker of a smile play about Toki’s lips before it fades away.

‘It means you’re sick,’ Toki corrects gently after awhile; Skwisgaar proves his point by coughing into a wad of tissues, looking defeated.  

Defeat, Toki decides as he curls up around Skwisgaar, doesn’t suit him.

\---- 

‘Tell me something about your life.’

Skwisgaar’s raspy voice is the first thing to punctuate the silence in hours, and for once, Toki’s glad to hear it. Anything is better, infinitely better, than listening to him wheeze in his sleep, however fitful it may be. His head is heavy against Toki’s chest, one hand curled in the fabric of his shirt.

Toki sweeps Skwisgaar’s hair aside, leans down to kiss a jutting cheekbone tenderly. ‘My life? There’s not much to tell.’ 

‘I don’t care,’ Skwisgaar replies, and then coughs so painfully it makes tears spring to his eyes. He can taste blood in his mouth and he makes a face.

(Toki understands, because he’s reaching for his water bottle already, which Skwisgaar gratefully accepts.)

‘Tell me something I never would’ve guessed,’ he continues in between gulps of water, giving Toki a look that borders on eager. Toki knits his brows together, trying to think of something.

(Something good. Something that will make Skwisgaar smile--maybe laugh, even, though it hurts Toki to think of how out-of-breath he gets when he does.)

‘Hmm. Well... I taught myself English by watching _The Simpsons_.’ (Skwisgaar gives him a look.) “Okay, okay. I taught myself the couple of words I knew before I met you just by watching _The Simpsons_. _Breakfast Club_ , too. I had such a boner for Molly Ringwald.’ 

‘Who _didn’t_ have a boner for Molly Ringwald?’ Skwisgaar perks up a bit, chuckling, and finally sits up properly. It takes him a painfully long time to get up off the bed, but he does eventually, disappearing into the bathroom. When he reemerges, he’s dressed down, his face washed, hair pulled up in a ponytail, glasses in hand.  

(He’s got his guitar and laptop, too, but that doesn’t mean he’ll be working on anything. Toki knows full well Skwisgaar has every intention of finishing the piece he’s been editing and arranging for the past several months. He also knows he’s been too tired to so much as open the file in weeks, which is telling in and of itself, though Toki doesn’t dare bring it up.)

He settles on the bed once more with a faint sigh, leaning back and closing his eyes; his skin’s far too sallow in the dim light. He looks almost like a corpse, sick and tired of being sick and tired. Toki kisses his forehead and temples and nose over and over, but the most it earns from Skwisgaar is a grunt of acknowledgement.

‘Now _you_ tell _me_ something. Something I’d _never_ guess.’  

One vibrant-blue eye opens halfway and Skwisgaar glances up at him, a smile playing about the corners of his mouth. ‘You know me better than anyone else, Tokes,’ he admits. ‘Don’t know how much there is left to say that you’re interested in hearing.’

‘I’m interested in everything about you.’ He takes one slender hand in both of his, turns it over, admiring the elegant bone structure. Skwisgaar’s got a surgeon’s hands, built for speed and dexterity and precision. After a pause: ‘Why’d you ever leave Sweden in the first place?’ 

‘Long story.’ Skwisgaar turns away, coughing; in between gasps for breath he sighs out on the most exasperated note imaginable, murmuring ‘for fuck’s sake’ under his breath over and over. ‘I mean... aside from my whole... _parental unit_ situation.’

(He turns up his nose. It’s absolutely darling. Toki laughs, leans in to kiss it.)

‘Tell me more.’

Skwisgaar shrugs, rolling over on his side to face Toki. He picks up one of the Norwegian’s hands in his, taps out the beat to one of his own songs, _Orgia_ , against Toki’s palm. Toki knows. He recognizes it, looks up, smiles. Skwisgaar smiles back.

‘What do you want to know? You’re not giving me much to go off, Tokes. I came to America in late ’95. Before that, I went to school like every single other regular jackoff. Played around in bands and stuff, tried to make a buck here and there. I was, ah--’ he squints up at the ceiling, remembering, ‘--in Fuckface Academy until ’94 or early ’95, I think. Played with them the longest. Had to put a lot of it on hiatus, though. Side projects... and then the... _other_ thing.’

‘What _other thing_?’

Skwisgaar doesn’t look at him for what feels like an eternity. ‘Did you know Sweden had compulsory military service until 2010?' 

‘ _What_?’ Toki’s eyes go wide. ‘Skwis--you were in the military? _You_?’  

A nod. ‘I was. I guess you could say I just got really, really unlucky. It was awful, but it was something to do. I was so _bored_ back then. Bored and bitter.’ Skwisgaar shakes his head, chuckles. ‘I had short hair and everything.’ He sweeps his ponytail aside, holds it out of view. ‘Can you imagine?’

Toki looks genuinely shocked. ‘ _Never_ \--!’ 

‘Well, I did! You’ll just have to take my word for it.’ Skwisgaar laughs merrily, this time without coughing, and pulls Toki against his chest in a crushing hug. ‘ _Dumbom_ ,’ he murmurs, his lips brushing against Toki’s ear, making him shiver with delight, ‘don’t worry so much about me--this is just a minor inconvenience. You’ll see--it’s going to get better soon. I’ll be fine.’

\----

Except it doesn’t. And he isn’t.

It happens in Espoo about halfway through their set. They’re playing a duel--one he and Toki had preemptively agreed he’d win, as usual--when he staggers a bit. Toki’s probably the only one to notice him waver; he’s as subtle as he can be when he moves to steady him. Skwisgaar gives him a weak little nod afterwards, wiping away the sweat that’s pouring down his forehead, but the look in his eyes is one of agony. Toki sees it; nobody else does, and even if they were looking--or if they knew _what_ to look _for_ \--they wouldn’t care.

It doesn’t help that Skwisgaar’s so Type-A he can’t help but push himself.

Or that the crowd is screaming his name during his solo in _Go Into the Water_.

Or that Nathan chastised him earlier for not being enthusiastic enough when he plays.

Or that the press has been questioning whether he’s too old to keep it up, whether he’s a has-been. 

If there’s one thing that motivates Skwisgaar Skwigelf, it’s the preservation of his ego, of his tremulous sense of self-worth, which is why, on the last song of their last tour date before a weeklong break, he gives it everything he’s got. 

(He hasn’t got enough.) 

When he falls it’s practically in slow motion--and even falling, Skwisgaar is graceful; he looks just like an angel lying there on the stage with his hair framing his head like a halo, chest heaving. Everything comes to a screeching, stunned halt; techs and medics and _Toki_ are at his side in an instant.

And then there are blaring sirens and oxygen masks and saline IVs.

(That’s the last thing Toki remembers.)

\---- 

‘I’m sorry. Could you say that again?’

Skwisgaar hasn’t spoken Finnish in years, so part of him (well, _all_ of him) is hoping he just misheard the doctor. But, judging by the compassionate look, the gentle headshake--and the duck-billed respirator--what he heard was real.  

 _Saatana perkele--_  

‘Tuberculosis,’ the doctor repeats. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr. Skwigelf. The good news is that it’s not MDR-TB or XDR-TB--’

‘What does that even _mean_?’

(Skwisgaar’s well-aware that his voice just rose a half-octave and cracked at the end, that the doctor can probably see the suspect moisture welling in his eyes. He doesn’t care, though. It’s so goddamned difficult to stay proud when he’s sick and in pain and lying in a hospital bed; in moments like these, the cracks in his facade show.)

‘It means that it will respond to a standard initial course of eight weeks with isoniazid, rifampin, and pyrazinamide, followed by a continuation treatment with just the isoniazid and rifampin for the next eighteen weeks.’

Skwisgaar does some mental math, his face falling. ‘That’s twenty-six weeks! What about touring? What about my band--my _career_?’

‘You need to focus on feeling better, Mr. Skwigelf,’ the doctor replies sweetly. He wishes he could see her face; her voice sounds so pleasant, and it’s the dumbest thing, but it makes him want to cry. ‘Don’t worry. If you don’t mind me saying so, I think you’re one of the few people the world _will_ wait for. Besides, you’ll be able to leave the hospital after just a few weeks--not the whole twenty-six. Once you’re feeling better and we’re sure you’re not contagious, you can go home and finish your treatment there.’ She checks her chart. ‘You’ve been having difficulty sleeping?’

He puts his head in his hands, shoulders shaking quietly, and nods.

‘I can give you something to help with that. Some rest and some fluids will help at least a little. Okay?’ 

He doesn’t answer; his throat’s too tight and he doesn’t want her to hear him sob aloud. If he can have nothing else, he wants that last shred of dignity.

\---- 

It’s so lonely here. Hours stretch into days, into weeks; they pump him full of drugs that make him sick, make him itchy, make him feverish and tired and achy. When he’s coherent enough to stay awake for more than an hour or two on end--which he isn’t very often--he sketches out tabs, drumlines, tries to compose something--anything. There’s music echoing around his head but it takes herculean effort to get it out on paper. 

(When he thinks about Toki, for some reason, it makes it easier. He misses that stupid smile, that contagious giggle, that earthy, freshly-fallen-rain scent. Toki’s equal parts annoying and endearing to him; he’d never known he could miss that constant boisterous presence until he no longer has Toki’s silent, perfect company to keep him entertained.) 

Toki’d urged him to show his work to Nathan before. The more Skwisgaar thinks about it, halfway between his dreamworld and waking life, he decides maybe he ought to. Maybe a little bit of something different would do them good; maybe some branching-out is in order. It’s going to be a long time before things go back to normal--if they ever go back to normal. He’s fairly certain that ‘brutality’ has a definition outside of the sort of things you’d find in horror movies or gore porn. Maybe sometimes the most brutal thing about life is just _surviving_.  

(Two weeks later, he wakes to sunlight streaming in through the tiny window in his room; the grey skies have lifted, however temporarily, and the snow outside is a dazzling, blinding white. Pure and untouched--it must have fallen while he was sleeping, which he does so very often now. Skwisgaar becomes suddenly aware of a newfound strength in his legs. The omnipresent weight in his chest and lungs, too, seems somehow less oppressive.)

The music comes more easily today; he has no trouble planning out the notes, the solos, the licks and chords and breaks. _Muodonvaihdos_ , he calls it. He works fervently on it all day, taking his medication without so much as a peep of complaint, so that he may be left in peace, be sooner returned to his endeavors.

He finishes in the wee hours of the morning, utterly exhausted, but oddly _content_ for the first time since being admitted to the hospital. He’s well-aware that he’s still got quite some time left to stay here in crushing isolation--he feels like he’s been waiting to breathe all this time, in a metaphorical sense--and yet he’s finally begun to make his peace with the whole thing. It’s out of his control; the only thing he can do is rest for awhile and hope the miracle of modern medicine and the passage of time--however slow its crawl--will soon render him whole once again.   

_Like a butterfly_ , he thinks, _maybe_. _Like waiting for spring and then coming out of a chrysalis to be something new entirely. Something better, even._

(Outside, the sun has long since set; the sky is a cool and peaceful purple, and down below, the lights twinkle in the windows of a nearby chapel. Snow is falling; even in here, in his own personal hell, the quietude and serenity reach him. 

The completed work rests on his bedside table. His heart has ceased beating against his ribs like an angry, caged bird trying to break free.)

He takes a breath.

**Author's Note:**

> In my headcanon for Skwisgaar, he came from the northernmost part of Sweden; more specifically, a tiny town called Jukkasjärvi (of 'Ice Hotel' fame) which is rather close to (the somewhat better-known) Kiruna, Sweden. Due to Jukkasjärvi's relative proximity with Finland's Lapland, I believe Skwisgaar grew up bilingual, and can speak both Swedish and Finnish fluently. However, considering Toki is Norwegian (and does not speak any modicum of Finnish), I believe Skwisgaar rarely, if ever, actually speaks it--he has no need to.
> 
> 'Muodonvaihdos' is Finnish for 'metamorphosis' or 'transformation.'
> 
> And yes, Sweden really did have compulsory military service until 2010. ;)


End file.
